Grief
Grief
Derek pushed through the rest of the men cluttering the halls without problem. He was always ‘without a problem’ when he was around the men lately. His mood seemed to be infectious and everyone saw him coming a mile away. He didn’t know how to get control of it though, how to keep the anger down and there was no way to know if the rumors he’d heard were true or false. What he did know, was that his brother was gone and John Connor knew where.
Derek was afraid he knew where too.
He rounded the corner and saw the door to John’s quarters open, the metal watching with all knowing eyes. She came forward as if she could stop him.
“He isn’t good company today,” she said softly.
“You think I care?” he asked, his voice deathly quiet for fear of what else he might scream to her if he wasn’t careful.
“Cameron, let him go.”
She looked over her shoulder and he could see Sam watching his brother closely. Dean’s eyes were like fire and there was such a sense of grief that he knew, damn it, knew that he was right.
“John isn’t good company today,” Cameron repeated to Dean.
Dean sneered at her. “He doesn’t deserve to be. Doesn’t deserve a free ride today either.”
Cameron was still watching the Winchester brothers and Derek had a sudden understanding that Dean wasn’t going to let her stop him. No matter what Cameron had been to them, no matter that she had been faithful to John and her mission, if Derek pressed to see him Dean would make sure he got through.
Cameron took a step back as she looked at Derek. “He’s grieving.”
“Son of a bitch-” he pushed past her then, ignoring the feel of the brother’s eyes on him as he slammed the door to John’s quarters closed.
John was sitting on the bed, his head bowed into his hands. He didn’t look up at the intrusion and Derek didn’t care that he was blindsiding him. He grabbed John by the collar and threw him up against the wall, pressing in as hard as he could, his gun pointed at John’s head. “Where is he?”
“You know,” John said softly.
“No, where is he?”
“Derek, I had to-“
“No! Where is my brother?”
The gun was cocked and tears spilled down John’s face. He couldn’t take the pain there, couldn’t take the grief and he unconsciously set the safety and dropped the gun before burying both hands in John’s shirt and kissing him brutally. He bit at his lips until he tasted copper, fingers finding John’s arms until they were bruised from his touch.
When he pulled away, John tried to chase his lips but he pushed him back hard enough to smack John’s head against the wall. “How the fuck could you!” he demanded. “He was my brother!”
He turned away, jerking the door back open before the sound behind him stopped him. When he looked back John Connor had slid down the wall and was sitting on the floor, his hands out in front of him as if he could ward something off. A streak of red marred his pale skin where the blood from his lip dripped down his chin, joined by the wash of salt tears from his eyes.
Derek was a step out the door before the words caught his ear, but he didn’t stop walking. He couldn’t.
“He was my father.”
On to Ours